


A Series of Vignettes -- Coming Home

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Love, M/M, Personal Growth, lots of soppy mushy garbage idk i just love writing tRASH, too much fluff my mans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 17:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10365891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: "It's a Monday in January, and four years have passed.Their music has only continued to grow."A short series of stuff with... no real theme, honestly. Just a few scenes, and a little story, featuring my favourite dog boys.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts), [t3f3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t3f3r/gifts).



> Heyo y'all!! So I, uh... haven't written anything in ages, but Jam's got me real inspired to write some more fluffy (and, yes, angsty) junk, so... well, here ya go, ahaha.
> 
> Sorry these are all kinda scatterbrained and, uh... bad, pfft. I'm wayyy out of practice with writing :,P Still, I hope y'all like them nonetheless!! Here's to some cute doggos bein cute and doggos and all that good stuff.

I:

It’s a Monday in January, and for the love of fucking Fyora, Kanrik absolutely can’t _stand_ that old man’s goddamn humming...

It’s just so _pretentious_ , he thinks — pitch perfect, even tempo’d, obnoxious vibrato and all. It’s as if Simeon were a retired opera singer who just won’t let go of his past — a voice that’s painfully prideful in sound, though he may not even realise it, and with a tone that’s thicker than the sweetest of sweets.

Kanrik gives a rather scornful sideways glance to the grey Gelert assassin who’s sorting through spellbooks beside him, frustrated when he sees just how goddamn _content_ the old bastard looks. All the thief craves in this moment is silence, and all that stands in his way are two or three words to this man, and yet...

And yet, for some reason, he doesn’t ask him to stop.

Something about the sounds keeps him spellbound.

 

It’s a Tuesday in March, and... ugh, goddammit, now Kanrik’s caught _himself_ singing along...

Kanrik would never — _could_ never — admit it, honestly, but that damn tune the old man’s always humming is catchy as hell. A wistful melody with a heartfelt cadence; simply structured like a lullaby, but as sweet and as moving as a ballad. There’s just something to the way that the tune lilts and carries that keeps drawing him back to its sound. There’s something in the way that Simeon’s eyes softly close during certain passages that keeps the thief’s interest piqued.

A huge part of the thief has begun to wonder what that silly song is — where it’s from, and what it means — but... well, he would never — _could_ never — dare ask.

He doesn’t want that shifty bastard knowing that he’s begun to _enjoy_ the tune, after all.

Man, how embarrassing would _that_ be...

 

It’s a Wednesday in April, and Kanrik has just quickly discovered that he can’t naturally harmonise worth shit...

It still catches the assassin incredibly off-guard, though — hearing the thief start to hum some off-key version of his favourite song. The way the grey Gelert’s voice catches in his throat as he whips his head around to shoot the thief a panicked glance is _ridiculously_ endearing, and Kanrik can’t help but find that his own voice catches as the two’s eyes meet across the now-silent meeting hall.

Simeon stutters out a beyond-embarrassed, “S— uh... sorry, was I, uh... just... humming, or something?” and Kanrik’s reply of telling him that he _always_ is when he’s distracted is said with just a _little_ too much sass to keep the grey Gelert from blushing.

And so Simeon turns away with a flustered little huff while Kanrik snickers cruelly into the palm of his hand.

They finish gathering their things in an only half-awkward silence, trying their best to stay mute.

 

It’s a Thursday in July, and Kanrik and Simeon have just discovered that their voices blend beautifully in octaves...

Yeah, okay, sure; coming up with fancy freestyled harmonies is definitely _not_ one of the thief’s many skills, but his dark bass is still beautiful when carrying a melody, and he can definitely hold a tune, so...

Kanrik, funnily enough, had started to hum the song first this time; and, after only a few stunned seconds of silent hesitation — and also, perhaps, a bit of awe at the beauty of the thief’s deep voice — Simeon had added his tenor to the tune.

The overtones that now dance above the two Gelerts’ heads as they sing are beyond hypnotic in their motions.

The two don’t even need to look at each other to know that they’re both smiling.

 

It’s a Friday in September, and... woah, woah, wait... that song has _words...?_

For once, Kanrik and Simeon aren’t doing boring busywork as they enjoy each other’s company. The two tired Gelerts are both leaning over a countertop that’s covered in half-chopped vegetables and meats as they try to cook up an impromptu dinner for two, and maybe it’s just because the bubbling of the broth on the stovetop is rather noisy, but Simeon’s actually started to sing now at an almost reasonable volume, far louder than his typically shy humming.

Kanrik pauses in his motions when he first hears what sounds like syllables accompanying the now-very-familiar song, then he lifts his eyes to look over towards the assassin, just make sure that he isn’t daydreaming, or something.

When Simeon realises that the thief’s stopped moving, and he, too, looks over to meet Kanrik’s gaze... suddenly they’re both laughing. They don’t really know why, but they are.

Simeon says sorry, and Kanrik says sorry, and when they’ve finally stopped snorting, their music is replaced by an equally charming conversation — and a surprisingly tasty meal.

 

It’s a Saturday in November, and now the words of Simeon’s song feel as familiar to Kanrik as his first language...

It’s a song about the ocean, he’s now learned — a sailor’s requiem. An oddly sad piece of music, honestly, as it tells the story of a heartbroken mariner who, haunted by memories and the ghosts of his past, sets sail one last time with a gentle farewell to the world. Each verse delves deeper into the islander’s story. Each chorus reiterates the man’s broken heart.

Kanrik is almost dying to ask if, just maybe, the song was written by — or maybe even _about_ — his very dear friend, but... well, no, no, that’s a little too personal, he figures. _Anything_ on that subject, he worries, is too personal. After all, he knows full well that all of those subjects — the topic of the past, and of one’s haunting memories, and of the ocean’s cruel call, and of the crying of the horizon — are tied far too closely to Simeon’s soul.

Maybe one day he’ll find the nerve to ask.

But for now the thief just sings along.

 

It’s a Sunday in December, and Kanrik so deeply wishes that his pride didn’t prevent him from asking for a lullaby...

It’s just so _beautiful_ , he thinks — the music of this man’s sweet voice. It’s just so gentle in sound, though he may not even realise it, and more stunning than starlight upon moonlit seas.

Kanrik gives a rather loving glance to the grey Gelert assassin who stands so closely beside him, smiling bright when he sees just how wonderfully _content_ the old dear looks. All the thief craves in this moment is to taste the sweet tongue that shapes those sounds, and all that stands in his way is...

Well... nothing, actually.

Nothing is stopping him.

And so he takes a risk.

And, for some reason, oddly enough... Simeon doesn’t ask him to stop.

Something about the feel of his lips keeps him spellbound.

 

It’s a Monday in January, and four years have passed.

Their music has only continued to grow.

 

~

II:

He’ll absolutely never forget these last twenty-four hours.

Never, never, never.

Not even if he tries.

Kanrik had been bugging Simeon about it for ages, desperate as hell to know his friend’s entire story. He’d heard rumours of a wife, or maybe a husband; a child or two, or maybe even none; a lost home, and a horrid family; a childhood of abuse, or maybe too much love; a home in a castle, or on a farm, or by the sea, or...

Eh, something, something, or something else entirely.

It was... frustrating, actually, to hear all of the different stories. It seemed like everyone had their own version of who Simeon was and where he had come from, and absolutely none of the tales cohered.

Maybe the assassin fed all of those varying rumours on purpose, though.

He’d always been a bit of a shifty bastard.

Well, at least over the past few years the two of them had grown more than close, and Kanrik had managed to debunk plenty of those silly myths and dig up pieces of the truth. He’d learned for a fact that Simeon was from a royal family, and that he’d truly loved them with all of his heart. He’d learned that Simeon’s old home was some castle in Market Town, and that those halls are _still_ home to many family and friends. He’d learned that Simeon had once had a wife, and an unborn daughter, and...

Well, actually...

That’s all he knew.

He knew that they had existed.

He just didn’t know why they no longer did.

And so he pestered him. Despite the murderous glares, and despite the hissed-out threats, and despite the fact that the closest thing to headway that Kanrik was ever able to make when it came to getting the assassin to tell the entirety of his life’s story was the one time he had kinda-sorta let slip something-or-other about a “tragic loss,” Kanrik never stopped pestering his friend. He’d never been one to stay silent, after all. He’d never been known to give up.

As the two of them got closer, and as the questions became more of an unfunny running joke than a nuisance, Simeon’s shouting had slowly turned to frustrated groaning, and then simply to rolled eyes and snorts of dissatisfaction. The furious insults that he’d once spat out in an attempt to deflect further interrogation had slowly become simple “no”s or “stop”s or, at worst, the occasional “shut up.” The scathing glares and the grinding of crooked teeth had morphed into sombre, downcast eyes, and half-parted lips that clearly yearned to say _something_. After a while, it had become nearly routine that Kanrik would say, “Do you want to talk about it?” and Simeon would say that he didn’t, then Kanrik would say, “Well, do you _need_ to?” and Simeon would change the subject.

But tonight, everything’s gone differently.

Tonight, everything’s finally being confessed.

Tonight, everything’s ended in sobbing.

But that’s what Kanrik had wanted, right?

And so now, here the thief sits, blinded and deafened by his own shock and confusion, clenching as tightly as he can to his dearest friend’s back as he tries to comfort his sudden trembling. He can’t quite remember how they ended up like this, but he knows that he’d heard one messy, trembling breath, and then suddenly their arms were around each other. The only phrases that Simeon is saying that the thief can currently comprehend are “it was all my fault” and “it’s my fault that she’s dead,” and all that Kanrik apparently has the ability to say in response is, “No, no, please; I promise you that it’s not.”

The funny thing is, though, that he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t remember the story he’d just been told. The shock of hearing the grey Gelert finally — _finally!_ — opening up to him had rendered the thief almost completely dumb in disbelief. Still though, slowly but surely, he begins to remember — or, maybe, to _realise_ — what the assassin had said, and then all of the reasons why Simeon had never wanted to think about those horrible memories suddenly make sense in Kanrik’s head. The thief knows now why the man had forced such silence, despite all the months of ceaseless prodding. He feels just so, so sorry that he’d pried. That he’d caused all of _this_. That he’d caused his best friend so much pain.

But, at the same time, well...

Maybe this is actually a good thing.

It’s clear that this all needed to be let out, after all.

It’s clear that this had been festering for far too long.

Simeon’s trembles are nearing convulsions now, but Kanrik still refuses to let go — just hush, hush, hush. He combs his fingers through his friend’s long hair, and he buries his nose into the crook of his neck, and he whispers the sweetest of reassurances against his throat, and he just tries his damnedest to stay calm himself. Neither of them notice as nearly an hour passes, then the room starts to finally fall silent. Neither of notice when they readjust themselves to lie down comfortably on the couch where they had once sat so calmly. Neither of them notice when Kanrik kisses the assassin’s forehead and softly hugs him tighter to his chest. Neither of them notice when they both fall asleep, safely cradled in the strength of each other’s arms.

 

Four hours later, when Kanrik finds himself suddenly awake in the dead of the night, he’s shocked into silence once more. He feels the soft weight of the man he’d once thought so stoic curled over him as if afraid to let go, and he’s honestly not sure if he’s more worried or relieved when he sees that he’s sleeping sound. The grey Gelert has one hand tucked over his heart while the other holds a fistful of the thief’s shirt. His hair is a tangled mess, falling in messy locks across his face, and his cheeks still seem flushed from his last bout of hysteria. But still, Kanrik supposes, at least his breathing has finally calmed. At least he’s finally getting some rest. At least whatever dreams he may be having seem peaceful.

Still, despite how familiar the night’s air now feels, Kanrik can’t help but wonder...

Is this... really the same man he was once so afraid of?

Is this really the same man who strikes fear into the heart of the kingdom itself?

He’s just... so gentle — at least in this moment — and so scared, and so hurt, and so lost. He just... needed someone to listen to him, and to understand his tale. He just needed to finally speak. Kanrik supposes that an inner part of him had _always_ known that, though — and an _outer_ part of himself as well. After all, he had seen the man’s nervous fidgeting before, and he just _knew_ that it had to mean more than a murderous mind. He had heard the man’s trembling breath before, and he just _knew_ that it had to be weak from more than bloodlust. He had felt the man’s shaking hands before, and he just _knew_ that they had to ache from more than pure violence.

And so now, here he lies; and suddenly the only thing keeping this so-called heartless killer tied to a world that’s been so cruel to him is...

Kanrik.

Just, simply... Kanrik.

But still, despite all else, possibly the most peculiar part of this all is that...

Honestly, Kanrik feels happy.

He feels really, truly happy.

Not because his curiosity’s been satisfied, and not because he now knows the truth. Not because he’s now the one with the “power,” and not because he now has fuel for blackmail. Not because he’s finally convinced this man to open up his heart, and not because he’s finally convinced him to spill its contents — no, no, no.

He’s happy because...

He trusts him.

Simeon trusts him.

And maybe...

Maybe he might even...

 

Kanrik takes the deepest breath that he can against the gentle weight upon his chest, then readjusts himself ever so slightly to lie comfortably beneath. He kisses the assassin’s forehead once more, gives his hand a gentle squeeze, then finally closes his eyes for sleep.

 

~

III:

Huh.

Well, that’s a bit strange.

Kanrik is usually home by now.

Simeon’s footsteps slow just the slightest bit as he calls Kanrik’s name into the dancing shadows of the thief’s candlelit bedroom, his voice hushing mid-sentence as he realises that the only ones there to hear him are the faces on the covers of old books. The silence accepts his greeting, though it doesn’t return the loving call, and then suddenly the sound of his sword’s hilt clicking against its scabbard sounds louder than any thundering storm.

Well, the good news is that there’s really nothing to worry about... probably. If Kanrik stuck to schedules, after all, he wouldn’t be the man that Simeon had fallen in love with — which... yes, yes, he can admit that he now has. The Kanrik that Simeon loves breaks into bakeries at three in the morning because he has a sudden craving for pound cake. The Kanrik that Simeon loves is prone to saying “hold on” in the middle of a thought, literally sprinting out of the guild’s headquarters, disappearing for a half hour or more, then coming back with his arms full of useless shiny trinkets and the rest of his sentence still sitting eager on his tongue. The Kanrik that Simeon loves will change his mind on what he wants for dinner halfway through eating his third attempted meal, then _insist_ that he’s still hungry until he nearly makes himself nauseous. The Kanrik that Simeon loves is... probably just out doing something harmlessly stupid and lost track of time as the night’s new moon crested over Meridell Castle’s walls.

Honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time this has happened.

It wouldn’t be the fifth or sixth time, either.

And, regardless, Simeon doesn’t really mind being alone here, anyway.

He’s learned to appreciate the occasional silence.

It’s honestly a bit strange, though, come to think of it... Simeon doesn’t realise it at all — the thought doesn’t even _begin_ to take shape in his mind — but... well, if it were still a few years ago, he would undoubtedly still _loathe_ this room’s current emptiness. On one of those five or six other times that this had happened in the past, long before Simeon knew Kanrik as well as he does now, he had found himself in this exact same situation, and he had then felt... uncomfortable. A stranger in a stranger’s home. He had looked around the room that night, and he had seen foreign walls in foreign colours; unfamiliar sights, and unfamiliar scents; oddly lit half-shadows, and oddly placed furniture. He looked, and the place had seemed useless. He looked, and he had seen nothing. He looked, and he had felt... uneasy.

But now...

Now, this room feels almost more natural to him than his own skin beneath his fur. He finds himself in that exact same situation, and he feels... calm. A lover in his lover’s home. He looks around the room tonight, and he sees the same walls with their same chips and scratches; the familiar sight of messily folded silks and old books, and the familiar scent of red wine and Kanrik’s fancy soaps; the comfortably dim light from the candles sitting upon the nightstands, and the cosily placed bureaus and chaises against the walls. He looks, and he sees the little coffee table where the two of them have spent so many nights staying up far too late playing card games, trying to see who can cheat the most convincingly. He looks, and he sees the vanity in front of which Kanrik has spent so many hours fiddling with his hair and trying to choose the best disguise for his silly party-related heists. He looks, and he sees the messily upturned blankets on the bed that the two have shared for almost four years now. He looks, and he feels...

Simeon breathes deep the room’s familiar scent, then exhales all of the stresses of the day. In one fluid, familiar series of motions, he removes his long cloak and cowl, then tosses them onto one of the chairs to his left. He unties his sword and satchel of poisons from his hip, then rests them gently against the nightstand on the left side of the bed — _his_ side of the bed. Finally, with another deep breath, and with another long, relaxed sigh, he flops comfortably onto the plush pillows and tangled sheets, just glad to be back home.

Because, yes, despite so many years of crushing loneliness, that is truly what this once-foreign place has now become:

His home.


End file.
